


today we ripped it off, showed the world that we exist

by TheDandiestLion



Series: I'll fight you both for the rest of my life long days [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canonical Discussion of Genocide, Canonical Reference to Child Death, Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, Gen, Post-Episode 2: Four Marks, i guess?, no beta we die like witchers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:41:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25507654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDandiestLion/pseuds/TheDandiestLion
Summary: My take on Jaskier's immortality. Set immediately afterFour Marks.Set-up for series with endgame Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer.
Series: I'll fight you both for the rest of my life long days [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1847908
Comments: 3
Kudos: 117





	today we ripped it off, showed the world that we exist

**Author's Note:**

> All titles for this series taken from The Amazing Devil's song "Two Minutes."
> 
> I've only watched the Netflix show, but I've tried to research what I could. Sorry if something's not canon.

As Filavandrel drew his sword, Jaskier braced himself for a stab, a slice, a spray of blood, for hearing his new companion die seconds before he followed. When the elf king sliced through their bonds instead of Geralt’s throat, he sagged and breathed out hard, feeling himself start to shake. That had been much too close. It was certainly the sort of heart-pumping adventure that could be used for a ballad, but he hadn’t expected to be, well, quite so close to wetting his pants.

“You’re a bard, yes?” Filavandrel asked, sheathing his blade and turning his attention to Jaskier. “Come with me.”

“Like hell,” Geralt growled from where the Sylvan, Torque, was fussing and dabbing at his wounds with a damp cloth.

The elf king sighed. “I’m not likely to kill your human after freeing you, Witcher,” he said. “I’m offering to replace his instrument.” He nodded towards the pile of their things, and Jaskier made a small mournful sound when he saw his poor lute. To think, its last performance was for that ungrateful crowd of bastards in Posada…

Filavandrel tossed Geralt’s pack, including his swords, to his feet. “There, now you can murder us all if I hurt the bard.” He turned on his heel and strode out of the chamber, and with one last look at Geralt, Jaskier scrambled after him.

He caught up with the elf king halfway down a sunlit stone passage. He knew he’d usually be babbling by now out of sheer nerves, but the elf’s tortured words as he talked about the massacre of his people were still ringing in his ears. A few moments later, they turned into another chamber, this one furnished with a sagging bed, ragged rugs, and a number of instruments laid out on a stone shelf and hanging on the wall. He could only assume this was Filavandrel’s own living space, and he wondered if the elf would have been a bard of his own people, if he had not been forced to lead them. A king in his golden palace, indeed.

It was Filavandrel who finally broke the silence. “If you tell me their family name, I can see if any of their people are among my followers,” he said.

Jaskier was pretty certain he’d missed part of the conversation somewhere. “I’m sorry, whose family name?”

The elf king looked at him over his shoulder, some complicated expression of pity on his face. “Your elven parent. Or did you not know you are half-elven?”

“Oh,” Jaskier answered blankly, before shaking his head. “Oh, no, yeah, I knew. I’m sorry, I don’t know her family name.” He dropped his head, forcing a chuckle. “I don’t even know her given name.”

The elf king’s expression was just pity now. “You were young?”

“Just a babe,” Jaskier answered, trying to inject some cheer into his voice, but Filavandrel’s words echoed through his head, _our babies fertilizer for their grain_. “I remember some flashes of her, but…” Eyes bright and blue like his, long golden hair, a sweet whisper as she called him her dandelion, shouting, tears. He cleared his throat. “My father was a right bastard, so I didn’t blame her for leaving.” He turned towards a lyre hanging on the wall, stroking his fingers lightly down its strings. “I just wondered why she didn’t take me with her. Figured that if I looked more like her, and less like Dad…”

He sighed and dropped his hand, turning back to Filavandrel with a twisted smile. “It wasn’t until I was older that I heard about the Purge that happened soon after I was born. There had been some Scoia’tael raids, and the humans wanted the blood of any non-human they could find.” He shrugged, picking up an ocarina and turning it over in his hands. “Most were able to escape into Brokilon Forest, I think. I used to tell myself stories of her living in some sort of tree palace there.” He breathed a laugh. “Guess I never grew out of telling myself fairy tales to avoid the truth.”

“Telling pretty tales is part of a bard’s job,” Filvandrel answered. “You just have to be sure you don’t forget the truth behind it when you do, and be mindful of what you’re teaching the people listening.” He crossed the room and knelt before a trunk, calling back over his shoulder, “So no one else knows, then? About your mother?”

Jaskier shrugged. “My father, obviously, but he kept it quiet. Couldn’t let anyone know the Count’s heir was a half-elven bastard.” He set down the ocarina and brushed his fingers over a flute. “I would say no one else knows, but you picked up on it pretty easily.” 

“Not everyone can sense it, not even most elves,” the elf king replied. He pulled something from the trunk, then turned back towards Jaskier. “It’s part of being a leader, I think—the goddess gives me the ability to sense my people.” He laid his hand on Jaskier’s shoulder, turning him to face him. “Regardless of your appearance, you will have a place among our people, should you need it.” He passed something over to Jaskier, who took it without looking away from his eyes.

The bard eventually broke their stare, dropping his gaze down to what Filavandrel had given him, and gasped softly. The lute was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, with exquisite craftsmanship, but it was something more than that. He gently turned it, holding it in position, and he swore he could feel the strings humming beneath his fingertips. It felt like nothing he’d ever known. It felt like home.

He felt tears welling up in his eyes, and his throat felt tight as for once, words failed him. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Later, when he and Geralt are on their way again, and the witcher growls to him about respect, he bites his tongue. His head is still spinning from how his worldview was shifted today, how the fairy castles he’d built up about his mother’s people had been replaced with fire and blood, mass graves and dead babes. Maybe one day he could shift the public perception of them, but it would be a long job, requiring a delicate touch. But the witcher beside him was making a difference right now, saving people right now, and if Jaskier could make it just a little bit easier for him to do so, that was worth a step backwards when it came to Filavandrel. Plus the idea that Filavandrel was defeated, skulking back in his mountains, would maybe give the elf king some breathing room to make his decision.

He can’t help but wonder about Geralt, though. Sure, he’d called him a human, but with those creepy witcher senses, surely he could tell? Well, he supposed it didn’t really matter anyway. The witcher mostly ignored him, barely tolerated his presence. But even if he did find out, Jaskier could at least trust him not to kill him for his heritage. He might kill him for annoying him, but at least not for his blood.

Besides, the man was a monster hunter with super senses. How long could it be before he noticed something was up?

**Author's Note:**

> Original idea for how Geralt finds out:
> 
> The two bid farewell to an old woman in a village, and as they leave, Jaskier reminisces. “Can’t believe she’s already a grandmother. Remember when we came through here, before, chasing rumors about that wyvern? She was just a little girl, then.”
> 
> Geralt pulls Roach to a stop, and Jaskier keeps walking a few minutes before noticing. “Geralt?” he asks. “What is it?”
> 
> “How old are you, Jaskier?”
> 
> Jaskier hums for a minute. “One hundred forty…seven, I think? It blurs together a bit.”
> 
> Geralt stares at him. “Humans don’t live past eighty.”
> 
> “Yes?” Jaskier answers, puzzled, then rolls his eyes. "Honestly, Geralt."
> 
> Geralt: ...?


End file.
